


Gasoline

by Anglophileslytherin



Series: Third Degree [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dadlivan, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Foster Care, Gen, Homophobia, Internalized racism, Past Child Abuse, Post-Episode: s02e08 The Blade of Marmora, Racism, Self-Hatred, aka Kolivan is Team Dad for the Blade, keith continues to be stressed, keith's backstory, less than the last story, mild pyromania?, not a happy childhood, so many warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 01:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14842826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglophileslytherin/pseuds/Anglophileslytherin
Summary: In the aftermath of unpleasant revelations, Keith trains with his new blade and tries very hard not to think.Linked to "Arsonist's Lullaby," but each can be read on its own.





	Gasoline

**Author's Note:**

> Another song-inspired fic about Keith, this time based on Halsey's "Gasoline." Once more beta-ed by the lovely MapleMooseMuffin as well as tumblr's elfafire7 and celloplayingtimelady.

_Are you deranged like me?_

_Are you strange like me?_

_Lighting matches just to swallow up the flame like me?_

_Do you call yourself a fucking hurricane like me?_

_Pointing fingers 'cause you'll never take the blame like me?_

 

* * *

 

Parry. Up-left. Dodge. Right strike. Adjust, come in close. Stab.

It was the middle of Ship’s Night. If anyone was still awake, they would be staying on the bridge, which meant Keith could finally move around in peace. He’d come to the training deck to get used to the new length of his knife—if the others saw him using it, it’d only be another reminder for them of what he was.

God. When he’d told them—

Granted, he’d kind of sprung it on them. Kolivan had greeted Allura and they’d all been turning to go and Pidge had been peppering him with questions about the flight and the base and he’d just heard himself say, “Wait,” and “There’s something you should all know,” and “Something else we found out at the base,” and they’d all been asking if he was alright and being so damn _nice_ and he’d just blurted it out.

“I’m Galra,” he’d said, and the words had exploded into silence like a reverse firework. “Part Galra, anyway. I don’t know how much.”

They hadn’t believed him at first, but Kolivan had vouched for him (and wasn’t that just hilarious) and then—

No. Don’t think. Fight. Parry, slash right, dodge, lunge, slash left. Get used to the blade.

 

* * *

 

By the time he was sixteen and finally became an emancipated minor, Keith had been through enough foster homes that he had lost track. Most of them didn't stand out much. The first, he thought, had been a Russian couple. They’d been alright, as fosters had gone. But they’d expected to only be taking care of him until his father was found, and as the months had passed they’d decided they didn’t have enough resources to take care of him longer, and had sent him back. A few families later had been a Jewish family, which had been different enough that he remembered. They’d sent him back after the mother had lost her job and the father had gotten sick. Other families had come and gone, either deciding they also couldn’t afford him or they didn’t want to deal with a “problematic child.”

The latter became even more common after the Carsons.

The Carsons had taken him in when he was nine. They’d seemed so nice when they’d come to meet him, and while a year had mostly beaten it out of him, he’d still hoped. They were fostering a whole bunch of other kids, so maybe they’d keep him too. He’d been on his best behavior through the whole process, and they’d chosen him, and signed the papers, and he’d flown to Ohio where they lived and they’d driven him to their house (a freaking _mansion_ , it was massive!) and shown him to his room.

A tiny room, smaller than some closets he’d seen, with plain white walls and a small window and a plain bed and a plain dresser.

“You need to prove to us that you can be trusted in the main house, sweetie,” Mrs. Carson had said. “I’m sure you’ll do well enough soon.”

Nine-year-old Keith had been a gullible idiot.

 

* * *

 

No. Don’t think about it. Parry, headstrike, duck, go for the legs.

Allura had taken it the worst, obviously. He couldn’t blame her for that, after all the Galra’d done to her. She’d stared at him like he was a stranger, stared at him with something between fury and disgust and betrayal that felt like loathing.

_“Any offer of help from the Galra is merely a prelude to a trap. I know all too well how quickly they turn.”_

Her fists had clenched convulsively and he’d braced himself for a blow. She’d opened her mouth to speak, and Kolivan had shifted and he could _see_ her remember that he was there and supposed to be an ally, could _see_ the mask of diplomacy come over her face. She’d taken a deep breath and her fists had slowly, slowly uncurled, trembling, and somehow that was even worse. She’d turned without a word and left, and he could see the anger she was just barely holding in, could feel it reaching out and choking him, could feel the heat of it burning him even at a distance.

Coran had shot him a look he wasn’t sure how to read before calling, “Allura,” and jogging after her.

_“I would never count on them for help.”_

(And only a few moments before looking at him with such trust and gratitude, so pleased to have his company and not be alone, if only she’d known—)

Keith hit the gladiator harder and ordered it to go up a level in difficulty.

 

* * *

 

He’d torn himself apart trying to please the Carsons. He was their sixth kid, all fostered. The oldest was twelve, the youngest seven. It was hard to stand out with so many, but Keith had been determined. They told him not to cry when he was upset, so he hadn’t. They told him to be polite and not cause them trouble and be seen and not heard and he had. He’d gotten good grades, joined clubs, volunteered for the hardest jobs, made due with the tiny meals they gave him (he deserved them for not doing well enough) and learned to mend the second-hand clothes they gave him (he just had to do well enough, he’d show them, he would) and cleaned and done everything he could think of.

It had taken him months to realize he couldn’t win.

He couldn’t remember if it was anything in particular that’d made him realize it or if it’d just been everything all together. The absent “that’s nice dear”s when he brought them good grades, the “I’m busy”s when he showed them a drawing he’d made, the emptiness in their eyes even when they did smile at him.

Whatever he did, he wasn’t good enough to make them _see_ him.

So he’d stopped trying, and nothing had changed. They didn’t even seem to notice.

So he’d started acting up, and that at least made them notice him. He’d gotten into fights, learned he had good instincts for it and gotten into more. He spent hours at the library, because at least books couldn’t ignore him and the librarians were nice as long as he didn’t make noise, and it was somehow different being ignored by strangers than by his foster parents. He hid in empty lots with lighters and matches, trying to warm the cold emptiness in his heart, and taught himself how to fight with the knife his dad had given him. And when they stopped even pretending to be concerned for him, he’d stolen a credit card, set the shed on fire, and ran away into the night.

They never looked for him.

(Later, Shiro would tell him about neglect and emotional abuse and fostering for money. Back then, he’d just scowled, pretended he wasn’t waiting for the missing child ad that never came, and kept going.)

 

* * *

 

Pidge and Hunk didn’t seem to really know _how_ to treat him now. Pidge was just awkward, which was bad enough, but Hunk had resorted to battering him with questions he didn’t know how to answer (like finding out what he was somehow made him magically know everything about the Galra), and kept referring to him as Galra Keith and Old Keith like he was a totally different person now, and it made him want to scream or tear something out of his chest and he just—

“Shut _up_ ,” he growled to his brain, and threw himself at the Gladiator more viciously.

 

* * *

 

That first time wasn’t his last on the streets, and he eventually got pretty good at it. The first time, though, he was angry and bitter and hurt and didn’t plan nearly well enough. He blew his way through the credit card impressively fast considering he was ten, bought himself a train ticket to get as far as he could and then played “kid sent in to buy stuff for mom” to get random expensive junk. He’d piled it all together that night and set it on fire while he ate food from some fancy restaurant. By the next day they’d canceled the card, and he realized he hadn’t thought through what to do next.

He’d managed pretty well, anyway. Gotten good at getting money and stealing food from outdoor stands. He’d also befriended most of the local stray animals somehow, despite his best efforts to get them to leave him alone (and he _didn’t_ like their company, he _never_ gave them food even if he didn’t have enough, and he’d stick with that story ‘til the day he died). The cops caught him before long and sent him to a new group home, but the next time he ran he was better prepared. (Shiro had laughed the first time he saw Keith surrounded by a sea of stray dogs and alley cats and pigeons.) (Keith had told him to shut up and open another can of pet food.)

 

* * *

 

“Gladiator, go to level three.”

Lance, to Keith’s surprise, had taken it the best. His first reaction had been a snarky, “Well I guess now we know why you’re always so grouchy,” which had made Keith flinch, but after that he'd acted like nothing had changed. It was…weird. He’d spent the first day waiting for the other shoe to drop, avoiding him like he’d avoided everyone else, but when he had run into him anyway Lance had just treated him like he normally did. It was…nice. Incredibly weird. But nice.

He could sense Red huffing at him, and couldn't help a small reluctant smile. “I know, I know.” She was mostly just annoyed with his self-doubt. As though she would choose a monster fuck-up as her paladin! But even if she was right, they still all needed to be able to sync up with each other, and if the others couldn’t trust him, what use was he? He’d single-handedly break Voltron, just by being himself. Another thing he’d ruin that way.

Red’s rumbling growl rolled through his head, exasperated and comforting. Keith took a deep breath and went back at it.

 

* * *

 

His final foster parents had been the Harrises, a rich white Christian couple from South Carolina who were exactly what you’d expect a rich white Christian couple from South Carolina to be like. They had seen thirteen year old Keith, a sullen “problem child” with a juvie record, and taken it upon themselves to Save him.

They’d cut his hair (“You don’t want to look like a girl!”), dressed him exclusively in button-downs and slacks (“You look so grown up!”), and would only let him listen to gospel (he tried once to listen to an old rock song, “This is Gospel.” They had not been amused). He was taken to church twice a week, forced to listen to the earnest prayers on his behalf, to “you shouldn’t waste yourself on silly dreams” and “don’t worry your little head about it” and “don’t be selfish” and “bless your heart.”

It was enough to drive him fucking crazy.

He’d lasted a month before trying to run away, but small towns were harder to hide in than cities. They’d gotten even worse when they got him back, naturally. They tried to get him to talk to the Pastor, who was a nice enough guy, but just as condescending. He insisted on treating Keith like he was a kid (okay yeah, he was thirteen, but he wasn’t a _kid_ kid, come on!) and, well. It hadn’t gone well. He _might_ have lost his temper and started swearing at the Pastor. He also _might_ have kicked him in the shins and run away again, only to run straight into Miss Powell, an older woman who was the head of the church group and hated him.

She had not been pleased.

Neither had the Harrises.

He’d had to help out at the Church for _weeks_.

By sheer coincidence, because apparently the universe thought it was hilarious, the Harrises had also been when he realized that he really, really, really liked guys.

(Miss Powell had a fourteen year old nephew who visited sometimes and Keith had thought he was probably the coolest person ever and also really cute.)

(Keith had the epiphany while showing him around town, and had immediately walked into a streetlight face first, because the universe had the worst sense of humor _ever._ )

And then had come what was really the final straw.

It had been a Sunday dinner with Mr. Harris’s visiting parents, and it’d gone poorly right from the start. Keith had sat down, they’d served the food, he’d taken a bite of beef—and Mr. Harris had cleared his throat pointedly and asked Keith to lead them in Grace.

Mr. Harris’s father had sniffed disapprovingly and Keith had muttered it as quickly as he could.

He did his best to keep his head down, mumbling comments when spoken to and otherwise staying silent.

And then the conversation had turned to The Gays **™**.

“It’s bad enough they do it themselves,” Mr. Harris said yet again, “But they have to rub it in everyone’s faces!”

“It’s disgusting,” said his father, (Papaw, as Mr. Harris had said to call him), “A perversion of nature.”

“Of course, I’m sure they aren’t all bad. They’ve just gotten lost from God’s path. We should pray for their souls to be returned to Him by His Grace,” Mrs. Harris put in.

“You’re right, dear, I’m sorry. I just get frustrated by it all.”

Keith tried to focus all his attention on shaping his mashed potatoes into something interesting and tune them out completely. He was actually managing pretty well until he heard his name.

“…Thank the Lord we saved Keith—when we found him his hair was so long he would have been the first to be corrupted!”

Keith only barely avoided choking on his food or bursting into laughter. Under his breath, he muttered, “Shows what you know.”

“What was that?”

“I—” He looked at them, opened his mouth to lie and say it was nothing, but—Fuck it. “That’s not how being gay works.”

“What do you mean?” Papaw asked, his voice dangerously soft.

“Don’t mind Keith,” Mr. Harris tried to interrupt, “He’s been—”

“No, no, let the boy speak. What do you mean, Keith?”

“That’s not how being gay works. No one—you don’t _choose_ to be gay. You don’t get, like, converted either. You just are or you aren’t.”

“And where did you hear that?”

Keith shrugged. “The group home. We had a lot of group therapy sessions and sh—and stuff.”

“Is that what they taught you? Oh, bless your heart. Lisa, you're right, thank the Lord you and John got him out when you did. Now listen, son, Sin is not natural—”

“Do you think anyone would choose to make their family hate them?!”

“Keith! Don't talk to your grandfather that way!”

“He’s not my grandfather! Look,” and he turned back to Papaw, “did you _choose_ to like girls? To like your wife? No, you just looked at her and went, ‘damn, she’s hot!’”

“ _Keith!_ ”

“…attractive.”

“Now, son,” Mr. Harris started, looking like he was calling on all the patience of the Lord. “The difference is that one is _natural_. But when you do things like listen to showtunes, and wear your hair long like a girl, well, you start to succumb to the Devil’s temptations.”

“That doesn’t even make sense! What does long hair have to do with anything? It’s just—it’s literally just hair. Whether it’s long or short has nothing to do with it!”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because I didn’t realize I was gay until after you cut my hair!” Keith shouted, and everything went horribly quiet as he realized what he’d said, the silence drumming in his ears.

“Now Keith,” Mr. Harris said softly, “You don't need to lie and cause trouble.”

“I'm not lying.” His heart was pounding, he could feel his fists shaking, but he was _done_. “I’m gay.”

Mrs. Harris murmured a prayer, and turned to her husband, her face pale and grave. “John, call the Pastor. See if he can stop by, as quickly as he can. Tell him it’s an emergency. We can’t let this fester—”

“It’s not a disease! God—”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!” Papaw snapped, and then said something about it not being the Harrises’ faults while Mrs. Harris started crying and Mr. Harris started talking about a prayer circle and therapy and Keith was shouting at them and they were shouting back and Mr. Harris said something about “I won’t have any Gays in my house!” and Keith said “Fine!” and—

Well. It was a good thing he’d gotten in the habit of keeping his essentials on him at all times.

He’d managed to scrounge enough money up to get across the country to California (Hollywood was there, the land of Sin) and ended up at yet another group home, viciously glad that he’d finally be able to stop finding people to disappoint, and then—

Then he’d met Shiro.

 

* * *

 

Kolivan had been…weirdly there the past few days. He’d shown up at Keith’s room where he’d been avoiding everyone that first night. Apparently he wanted to make sure Keith took care of the injuries he’d gotten during the Trials. “Our fight is too dire to lose any warriors to easily treatable injuries, _Kavozir,_ ” he’d said.

And then, “Eat, _Kavozir._ A warrior weak from hunger is of no use.”

And, “Drink, _Kavozir_. A warrior who is dehydrated is of no use.”

“What does that even mean?” Keith had eventually snapped.

Kolivan was unruffled. “It means ‘little warrior.’ Now drink. I cannot let one of my Blades make themselves sick, and I have other things to do.”

Keith had blinked and drank, wondering when the hell his life had gotten this weird.

 

* * *

 

Shiro had been the first one to teach him how to make a fire safely, instead of just yelling at him. The first one to tell him about emancipated minors. Shiro had helped him clean up his act enough to win his emancipation, and helped him find a cheap apartment above a restaurant that would let him work in exchange for room and board. And when he’d messed up or gotten angry or not wanted to talk, Shiro hadn’t ditched him or given up on him or made him feel worthless. Of all the people he’d met—his dad, who he barely remembered; his foster families; the different group homes; even the teachers at the Garrison—Shiro had been the only one to never give up on him.

He hadn’t talked to and barely looked at Shiro since that first moment at the Blade of Marmora headquarters, when the knife had reacted to him and Kolivan had announced that he had Galra blood.

He just—he couldn’t bear to see disgust or horror, or worse that polite blankness that hid everything else behind it. Couldn’t bear to see that on Shiro’s face, of all people. Keith couldn’t even blame him. The Galra had taken him, tortured him, chased him—Shiro still wasn’t free of them. And to find out that someone he’d actually befriended was one of them—

Keith had never wanted this. He’d wondered for so long about who he was, about what the knife meant, but he’d never wanted this, never wanted to learn that he really was a monster, that there was a _reason_ he was so fucking messed up and that reason was that he wasn’t even fucking _human_ —

A frustrated roar burst out of him and he slashed at the gladiator with all the force he could muster, tossing it back a full step. He sucked in sharp breaths, his arms shaking. He could feel his eyes itching, and squeezed them shut. No. No, he wasn’t some weakling. He could control himself. (He felt like he was spiraling away from himself, twisting and twisting and falling into a black hole that pulled him apart) (monster, monster, monster, firebug, brat, problem child, satan-spawn)

“Dammit.”

One more shaking breath.

_Patience yields focus_.

He could control himself.

(God, he wished he could light a fire somewhere, let it breathe for him, let it burn everything away.)

“Deactivate.” The others would be up soon, better to get out of their way while he could. He turned to the door and froze.

“Are you finished?” Shiro asked, leaning against the wall. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

“Y-yeah.” Keith unfroze and looked away, fiddling with the blade. “Sorry. I didn’t know you wanted to train too, I should’ve just—Sorry. I’ll get out of your way.” He lurched forward, going as fast as he could without running.

“Keith, wait.” He froze again. “I wanted to talk.”

Don’t turn. Don’t look at him. Don’t break. “It’s okay.” Keep your voice even. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.” Silence. He licked his lips. “It’s okay. I get it—” Don’t let your voice break, goddammit. “I get it. It’s okay. After what they did—I understand. I—” Fucking _dammit_. “I’ll just go. We don’t need to—”

“Keith!”

He flinched, and heard Shiro sigh. Dammit, he hadn’t meant to—

“Keith, what are you talking about?”

“I get it, okay? I’m Galra. The Galra tortured you. I’m not an idiot, I can do the math. One plus one is two, you hate me. I get—”

“I don’t hate you!”

He sounded so horrified at the idea that Keith almost believed him. _Wanted_ to believe him. Wanted it so fucking badly he could feel it tearing at his chest, hear it screaming in his head. But he wasn’t a kid anymore, and what had wanting ever gotten him anyway? He knew better. Should’ve known better. It had all been too good to be true anyway, _Shiro_ was too good. Trying to be the bigger person even now--God, maybe Shiro even tricked _himself_ into believing it. But it’d go rotten sooner or later, and he owed Shiro more than that. Owed it to him to end this now, to spare him from tearing himself to pieces pretending to care about a monster.

_Focus. Breathe. Keep it together._ “You don’t need to lie to me.” The knot in his throat was making him hoarse, but dammit, he owed him this. He kept going, talking over the footsteps he could hear coming around him, stopping in front of him. “It’s—It’s okay. I’ll go. Get out of y’all’s way. Maybe the Blade--”

“Keith, I don’t hate you.” A hand came into his line of vision, stopping just before it touched his cheek. “C’mon, Keith, look at me.”

“Stop it! You can’t even touch me, you—”

He heard another heavy sigh, and then two arms were wrapping around him and pulling him close against a solid chest, warm and familiar. “Idiot,” he heard Shiro murmur fondly. “I didn’t want to startle you, that was all. I don’t hate you.”

“But—”

“So you’re Galra. So are Kolivan and Antok, and so was Ulaz. A person’s family doesn’t define them, Keith, you know that.” He tightened his grip, his prosthetic whirring softly in Keith’s ear. “I was surprised, yeah, but you’re still my friend. You’re still you.”

Hesitantly, slowly, Keith raised his arms, stopping just short of touching Shiro. ( _Don’t hope, don’t trust, it’ll just hurt worse later, it’s just a trap._ ) “Allura hates me.”

“Allura’ll get over it. She’s managed to make an alliance with the Blade of Marmora, and she doesn’t know them nearly as well as she knows you. She’s just taking longer to realize that she’s been wrong about the Galra being all evil.”

“Pidge doesn’t know _how_ to deal with me. And Hunk keeps treating me like I’m a different person.”

“They’ll figure it out too.”

_Don’t trust, don’t hope, don’t--_

“You don’t hate me?”

“I don’t hate you, Keith.”

“Promise?” he whispered, hating how desperate and weak and childish he sounded.

But Shiro didn’t laugh. Shiro didn’t make him feel stupid, or worthless, or messed up. Shiro just smiled gently into his hair and whispered back, “I promise.”

And Keith let himself hug his closest friend like a life preserver, let himself bury his face in his shoulder, and finally let himself cry.

* * *

 


End file.
